After The Fall
by Cyclotrimethelene
Summary: The memories of Terianna, a death knight of the scourge and later of the Ebon Blade. She recounts The fall of Silvermoon, the scourging, and initiation as a death knight acolyte.
1. Intro 2

"Sire, the ambassadors have arrived."

The old mage hesitantly raised his head toward his assistant, scratched his wiry beard, and turned back to his work, emanating an aura of impartiality toward the issue.

"Very well." He replied drily. "Let them in."

The large chamber was bathed in light from the overhead windows, rays of light illuminating the long table sitting in the middle of the room. The air was warm, and the old mage felt somewhat stuffy in his long violet robes. He raised his head once more as the door to the chamber opened and the ambassadors entered, one by one, into the room. As soon as the door closed, the air seemed to freeze and the temperature suddenly dropped.

The ambassadors were a blood elf female, a large tauren male, and a male blood elf bringing up the rear. Their eyes glowed the telltale cold blue of the scourge within their black hoods.

"Ah, I see you have arrived. Very well. Let us get started. What news do you bring from the Highlord?" the old mage said in a cool, uncaring tone. The voice that answered was unlike any he had heard before, a frozen slither laced with anger and hatred.

"We have come to see if you had reconsidered our request for more reinforcements in Icecrown." replied the blood elf female, apparently the leader of the small troop. Through her tone of voice, it was easy to tell that she had no desire to be standing there, discussing anything at all with the mage, least of all the issue of reinforcements. She removed her hood to reveal a face of beauty and contempt, a scowl on her face and a frown on her lips.

The old mage, sensing his guests' hostility, answered in kind.

"No, we have not. The Kirin'Tor have no intention of sending any more mages to further Mograine's cause. We have sent what little we could spare."

The old mage, feeling the need to add personal closure to the issue once and for all, added "And if it were up to me, I would not have sent a single gold coin. You think you're all so high and mighty, having broken away from the Lich King. Mograine and all his little lapdogs. To me, you're all the same. If Mograine feels that the issue is important enough, he will come discuss it personally. One day, you'll come crying back to the Lich King and all will be gone. If you feel the need to badger the issue some more I suggest you take it up with higher authorities, not me. I suggest his little death squads find a more appropriate line of work than ambassadorial duties. And one more thing-"

He didn't get to finish his sentence. The leader of the ambassadors cut in, rage rampant in her voice, ice in her veins, and her hand on the handle of her runeblade.

"You will learn your place, human! You have no idea what you are dealing with! You may think the Highlord is a coward, so be it. I invite you to meet him yourself. Believe me, he is much more terrifying in person."

The old mage, suddenly pale, stared into the seemingly empty eyes of the death knight, speechless. He suddenly regretted his outburst and seemed to recede deeper into his robes. She was right, he didn't know what he was dealing with.

"Very well, mage," she hissed, "I see there is no purpose in badgering this issue any further. The Highlord sends his regards."

With that, she pulled a dagger from its sheath on her belt and stuck it into the polished hardwood of the desk. It was a faint gray with barely discernible runes etched along the bony, fang like blade.

"A token of our progress through the Lich King's fortress."

She turned and walked out the door, her comrades following her, the frost of their presence lingering in the air.


	2. Chapter 1

Memory is a curious thing. It is the defining material of a person's being, but I would rather forget. Forget it all if I could. I am what I am now, not what I was years ago. However, nothing can make me forget my past.

The day was chilly, and cold wind rushed against her face. It was early in the morning, the first rays of sunlight appearing over the horizon. Hundreds of blood knights just like her stood in the way of the advancing scourge horde. Advancing toward Silvermoon. Unrelenting. Unthinking.

An elven horn sounded, then another, and another. The commanders were signalling a charge. A first strike to clear this land of the infestation at their front doors. She gripped her sword tighter and waited for the command to move.

A final horn sounded, louder than the rest, giving the final command.

The knights charged, polished white armour gleaming in the early light, the ground shaking from their combined footfalls. The undead were close now, only a few hundred feet.

Impact. The gleaming wave of light tore through the front lines of hapless corpses reanimated as simple tools of war. A meat shield to slow their advance. Nonetheless, some fell. Needless deaths. The line started to thin and the knights pushed through.

A sudden charge from the enemy broke her out of her thoughts. The scourge had finally made a move. Hordes of warriors, former members of the horde and alliance risen and converted to the Lich King's cause. Death knights. Black saronite armour, titansteel runeblades etched with runes and screams of tortured souls. A deadly force.

The shambling dead that formed the front line were almost gone and the fight turned to the death knights. Sounds of fierce battle filled the air, yells of fury, screams of pain.

A death knight charged her, a long sweeping strike flying over her head as she ducked. A bold move that would cost him dearly. She thrust the sword into his abdomen and twisted. The runeblade dropped from his hand and he gripped the blade protruding from his stomach. A look of surprise, pain, and fear crossed his face, the last traces of twisted life and humanity leaving him forever. She pulled out the sword and he dropped, dead. She moved forward; sidestep, cleave, turn around, thrust, spin, somersault, thrust.

She looked right, then left. Ara, her best friend, her sister in arms, stood there. She dispatched a death knight, and then another. Ara looked straight at her. She was saying something but the words were lost in the sound of battle. She had to get closer.

Something struck Ara and she wheeled about. When she turned, there was a black arrow protruding from her left shoulder. Then another hit her thigh. She turned and tried to run toward her friend. In the confusion, a dark figure moved up behind Ara. A blade exploded from her chest in a small burst of blood as it punctured major blood vessels.

The air stood still, time slowed to a crawl. The death knight behind Ara thrust the blade deeper, revelling in the blood knight's agony. He pulled the runeblade out of his enemy and raised it above his head for a finishing blow. Ara dropped to her knees, looking at the blood on her gauntleted hands.

In a few quick strides she was on top of him, just as he was about to bring the sword down on Ara. He initiated the long swing, but didn't finish, her blade stopping his. A surprised look crossed his face, and it soon turned to one of anger. He twisted his blade out of the lock and swung at the blood knight foolish enough to try and stop him. She blocked hit after hit, and on the fourth swing sidestepped and sunk her blade into the side of the death knight's chest, through the small unprotected crevice in his armour. She then pulled the blade out and brought it down on the back of his neck. The black armoured body dropped to the ground, the severed head rolling down the small incline.

She ran to Ara, her white gleaming armour now a shiny red from the blood flowing from the wound in her chest. Holding her best friend in her arms, she looked deep into Ara's eyes, watching her slowly fade out of this world and into the next. Ara raised her arm to her friend's shoulder, and then her hand dropped and her head lay loosely in her friend's arms. She was gone. Tears fell onto the bloodied armour, washing away the blood. The sound of battle was a faint noise in the background. IT was all but forgotten. A yell snapped her out of her grief.

"Fall back! Fall back!"

The commanders were retreating. She didn't see from what, until it was upon her. The sky filled with thousands of saronite arrows, their black razorheads sharp and deadly. There was nothing she could do. There were too many, and she was too slow. She felt a several arrows hit her, and she fell over, unable to move. The light was fading, and she felt herself slipping away. A darkness enveloped her.


	3. Chapter 2

The whistle of wind. That was all she could hear. The smooth, calming sound of the wind. It was almost perfect. Was this death? Was this what came after the end? No, something felt wrong. Something felt out of place. There was definitely something else going on here. Her feeling of calm was quickly replaced by anxiety, and then fearful revelation.

The battle. The ranks of blood knights, the hordes of scourge. The faces of her brothers and sisters in arms, the calm before the storm. It quickly filled itself in, every memory more painful than the last. The charge, the few that fell. The saronite armour of the scourge moving towards her. She tried to banish the images in her mind, to no avail.

Then, like the final blow before the end, she saw Ara. Fighting for her life, for everyone's lives. She saw her turn and say something, and once again, the words seemed just out of reach. She realized what came next and tried once more to scrub her mind of what she was seeing. Her effort amounted to nothing. Watching helplessly, she saw Ara get hit by the enemy's arrows, followed by the dark figure of a death knight ready to take her life. His runeblade bursting from Ara's chest, the death knight smiling with satisfaction as he twisted the blade, Ara's body jerking in agonizing spasms.

She felt numb as she watched her friend slide off the blade impaling her chest and fall to her knees. She felt a sudden influx of anger. A raw fury building inside her. She watched herself charge the death knight as he was about to go for the kill, and in a few quick blows, he was down.

For a second time, the helplessness of the situation struck her. The pained look in Ara's eyes. Ara's hand as she tried raising it to her friend's face for a final goodbye. She didn't finish the motion. She died in her arms, and no one could help her. She was gone.

The memory shifted, and suddenly, she felt very much alone. Alone on the field of battle in the dead of night, the corpses of friends and enemies alike scattered all around her, the moonlight reflecting off their armour and their blood. She was among them, lying in her own blood, her hand extended toward Ara's lifeless form.

The image of the wave of arrows flashed in front of her eyes.

She realized that she was hit, long black arrows embedded in her body. She tried to scream, but no sound came. Her consciousness faded back into the darkness, the fear of her realization tearing it apart once and for all. She was finally slipping from this world, a release from her pain and anger.

Slowly, in the silence of the battlefield, she died.


	4. Chapter 3

"Put them down in the center there. Quickly!" Lord Balthas yelled at the apprentices dragging in the bodies.

Five blood elves. He would have liked to have more, but five would have to do. They had been brought to him from the battlefield near Silvermoon, suitable candidates for his cause. The scourge needed reinforcements, and these were of top quality.

He looked around his laboratory, his little shop of horrors. Odd tools hung from a long set of racks on the wall, containers full of strange, foul smelling concoctions sat on shelves in broken cabinets, and multiple abominations in varying stages of completion hung from hooks on the far wall.

He examined one of the long stone tables that served as his workbench, looking for the most important item of all.

"Casan! I need the solution! Why isn't it here yet?"

The apprentice ran to the cellar, or what one would call the cellar on a necropolis, retrieved the jug of icy blue solution, and carried it back to the necromancer's laboratory.

Soon, Balthas would start the scourging process. His unfortunate candidates would become servants of the scourge, twisted and defiled for the Lich King's use.

Her eyes shot open in a surge of excruciating pain, the darkness of death ripped from inside her. The pain left her as quickly as it came, and she was left trembling from the surge of adrenaline lying...where? Where was she? She started to fade away again, the shock to her body too great, and quickly fell into unconsciousness.

The scourging had been a failure, for the most part at least. Of the five blood elves that he had been tasked with reanimating, two were too far gone to convert, two had their minds collapse shortly after reanimation, but one seemed to have survived, hanging on to the twisted black magic of afterlife by a mere thread. A pity. His superiors would be displeased at the loss of such good specimens.

He looked at the one survivor, turned to an apprentice and said "Drag her to the dungeon." Then, turning to the rest of his apprentices who had been watching the gruesome show from behind, "You there! Clean off the altar, we have more work to do!"

With that, the apprentices moved to their appropriate tasks and readied the reanimation altar for the next group of unfortunates who would be brought there for conversion.

She woke slowly with a persistent ringing in her ears that was getting louder and louder the more conscious she became. She slowly opened her eyes and examined her surroundings.

She was lying in some sort of cell, the walls made of heavy stone. The only light entering the tiny room came from the hallway beyond the door's small barred window. Looking down at herself, she saw she was dressed in a crude gown made of some sort of rag like material, and her wrists were held by a long chain attached to the wall. Her next thought struck her like a bolt of lightning: who was she?

Digging deep inside her mind, she sought answers to anything she could find. She knew there was something there, buried deep within the fog that filled her memory, but repeated attempts at unlocking these secrets yielded no results. She sat there in silence, unable to act, unable to remember.


	5. Chapter 4

It came to her in small bits and pieces. Her name, who she was, and a few bits and pieces of memories. She knew she was Terianna of Silvermoon, and that she had been a warrior of some sort. She saw glimpses of random memories, like the high arches of a large city, holding someone's hand in her own, her reflection on a silver white metal of some sort.

However, not all the memories coming back were similarly present. Many were those of a large conflict, of destruction. But most of all, she felt an inexplicable sense of loss. Of what, she didn't know. Surges of pain, like those when you lose something of great sentimental importance, appeared and disappeared without cause. And lastly, she saw images of blood. A gauntleted hand of the same metal as the one that bore her reflection, but this time covered with fresh blood. The empty staring eyes of someone she once knew, dried red streaks across the face that held them.

The more she remembered, the more distraught she became. She remembered herself, her true self, but knew little more, and the more she realized she didn't know, the more it ate at her consciousness.

Several days passed, or what she assumed was several days. No one had shown any interest towards the occupant of the small cell, and she had received no food thus far. Hunger and thirst tugged at her. She crawled to the far corner of the cell, where a leak from the outside had caused a puddle to form. It was shallow and probably unclean, but she couldn't hold out much longer. She approached the puddle, sat on her knees, cupped her hands, and leaned over to take a drink. It was the first time she had seen her reflection since appearing in the cell, and what she saw caused to reel backwards in surprise, and in fright.

Her skin was pale, almost white, and her face was gaunt from the lack of food and whatever else she had gone through before coming here. Her hair, normally rich with colour and tied in a neat tail, was faded and clumped. Her untidy features were surprising, but not wholly unexpected. What struck her most of all, were her eyes. No longer did they bear the rich green glow of magic. Now, they bore the ice of the Scourge, and of undeath.

Right then, at that very moment, she wished she was dead. She wished she could disappear from the face of the earth for good. She wished that she was as dead as the people in her memories, gone forever from this world. The horror of her realization chilled her to her very core, and she wanted nothing more than to forget everything, to go back to her confused self, and to be released from the nightmare that had become her reality. She was no longer struck by hunger, thirst, or fear. All she could feel was disgust and contempt for what she had become.

She sat in the corner of the tiny cell, as far away from her reflection as she could. She could not bear the sight of the thing that looked back at her. The thing she had become. Sitting there, staring into the emptiness of space, she dreaded her fate.


End file.
